


Music to my Soul

by OverlordYue



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Power Imbalance, Use of the f slur, dub-con because of captor/captive relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 11:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24350011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverlordYue/pseuds/OverlordYue
Summary: Three months after the Seeds’ arrest, Pratt was still jumping every time someone turned on a radio.
Relationships: Staci Pratt/Jacob Seed
Comments: 4
Kudos: 83





	Music to my Soul

Three months after the Seeds’ arrest, Pratt was still jumping every time someone turned on a radio. Of all the things Jacob had tried to take in the Whitetail Mountains— his dignity, his sanity, his hope of ever feeling safe again— the one thing that Jacob had really, truly ripped out of him was his love of music.

Once he would have called that love undying, with concert stubs covering an entire wall in his bedroom and old CDs and tapes crowding up his bookcases. He’d once spent all the money a fourteen year old could accumulate on a vintage record player, even though his mother had said it was a waste, and he’d had his first kiss at a My Chemical Romance concert and then popped his cherry a few years later at Bonnaroo. He had loved music, in every form, pop, punk, rap, country, soul, indie, fuck it didn’t matter, he had loved it all until Jacob sent him swirling down, _down_ , **_down_** into a sea of red and onnnnnlllly yooooou. That love had shriveled up and, refusing to die, become undead, a source of fear, of blind terror that set Pratt’s hands to shaking and triggered his fight or flight senses with the first note.

More often than not, it resulted in flight, Pratt leaving the room as quickly as possible, trying not to stumble as the music seemed to cloud his eyes, muffle his ears, put lead in his blood, but sometimes it was fight and Pratt had to be dragged down to the Hope County jail with red hands and gritted teeth and be sat down in Whitehorse’s office where the Sheriff could keep an eye on him overnight.

“I don’t know how to help you, Pratt,” Whitehorse told him the fourth time Pratt was brought in, Rook quietly depositing him into Whitehorse’s spare chair, “You won’t go to therapy, you won’t go to a hospital. Son, I don’t know what to do.”

 _He’s giving up on me,_ the thought terrified Staci, but also made a darker part, a part Jacob had left in him, snarl, **_He’s giving up on me. Even Jacob never gave up on me,_** _Weak **as I was, and look at me now.**_

His hands were bloody, he had a bruise on his face, but he’d won that fight, smashing Ryan Gagne’s face into his kitchen counter because Ryan wouldn’t turn his fucking music down and Staci was trying to sleep and forget and **_Jacob_**.

Whitehorse sighed when Pratt didn’t answer, par for the course these days, and he returned to his work, shaking his head.

The “Incident with Eden’s Gate” as it was formally named by the news, or “that fucking shit with the Peggies, may they rest in fucking pieces, those crazy, fucking assholes” as the locals called it, had left Whitehorse invigorated, forgoing his retirement. No longer ‘bored’ with the job.

Pratt sneered down at his fingers, his nails bitten down to stubs, a nasty habit he’d picked back up again after ridding himself of it in high school. Back then he’d put acid green nail polish on the little stubs to stop himself from biting until Mark Giedroyc called him a fag, then he’d switched to clear, forgetting sometimes and ending up with a nasty taste on his tongue. Classical conditioning, his 11th grade science teacher would have said if Pratt had ever bothered to listen to him, too caught up in whatever shit he’d been doing as a teenager.

Mark Giedroyc was dead now, his last days spent as one of Faith’s Angels, and the bruise on Pratt’s face ached as he smiled, the grin too wide, with too much teeth.

John Seed was dead too, Rook had killed him only a week before the National Guard arrived. Faith, Joseph, and Jacob had all been arrested, not going without a fight, and Pratt had been terrified, so scared that Jacob would kill him rather than allow him to go free.

“You’re mine, Pratt,” Jacob had whispered to him the night before Eli Palmer broke down the gates of the Veteran’s Center, leading the charge that would end in Jacob’s arrest.

“You’re mine, no matter what happens. You ain’t gonna be the same, you’re not gonna be satisfied surrounding yourself with the Weak anymore, are ya?” Jacob had had his fingers wrapped around Pratt’s cock, had him pressed down into his cot at the foot of Jacob’s bed, and Pratt shook with it, moaning as white fire stirred in his stomach, just for a moment burning the fear away, and he had gasped Jacob’s name into the dark.

That night was the only time Jacob had ever kissed him, sealing his lips over Pratt’s as Pratt came on his fist, and sometimes, if Pratt was alone enough or could hit bastards like Ryan Gagne hard enough, he could still taste that kiss in the blood on his lips, in the heat at the back of his throat, and he burned with it. He liked burning, it was better than drowning, freezing, he held with those that favored fire, but he kept these thoughts to himself as he sat, silent, in Whitehorse’s chair until the morning came and Rook came to drive him home, the car radio off, blissfully silent.

She stopped off at Casey’s new add on to the Spread Eagle, the Choking Chicken— Mary May had thought it was funny— because Pratt was fucking starving, leg bouncing and nails bleeding in her passenger seat, and then he was dropped off at home to devour the bucket of chicken on the floor of his kitchen in nothing but his three day old underwear, surrounded by molding dishes and a disgusting floor.

His phone buzzed in his pants pocket, lying on the floor by the fridge, but Pratt’s eyes itched with fatigue and he ignored it, tearing the last bit of meat off a drumstick, letting his teeth skim along the bone before letting it join the pile in the pale yellow bucket, grease coating his fingers.

The buzzing stopped, and Pratt licked his fingers clean, taking up grease, chicken skin, and blood on his tongue before biting down on what was left of his pinkie nail, sucking on it to ease the sting of pain as his teeth dug into raw, swollen skin.

“Go away,” he growled around his mouthful when the buzzing started again, and it seemed louder this time, shaking his whole kitchen, his whole body, sending shudders through the chicken bones and echoing up Pratt’s spine, and he flexed his jaw, biting down on his pinkie until he tasted fresh blood and the buzzing had stopped.

“ ** _Go away,_** ” the buzzing started for a third time, and this time Pratt crawled over, food crumbs digging into his naked knees, and he yanked the phone out of his pocket, fingers slick and disgusting and he answered, growling in the back of his throat, where the kiss lived.

“This is a call from an inmate at Montana State Prison. Accepting this call means accepting all associated charges. Press 1 to accept this call, press 2 to cancel, press 3 to repeat this message.”

The growl caught in Pratt’s throat, guttered into a whimper, and something stirred in his chest, opening its eyes.

The message repeated when Pratt didn’t choose an option fast enough, then repeated again, then again, and the fourth time, the automated voice turning high, giggly, beckoning, and Pratt’s fingers moved, leaving streaks of grease on the screen as he hit the dial option and pressed one, terrified that his fingers would slip.

He pressed the phone back to his ear, holding it with both hands, cradling it, his breath coming fast as the phone let out two beeps, long and drawn out, then there was the sound of connection, and Pratt could hear voices, muffled and far away, and the sound of familiar, leveled breathing.

“Pratt.”

Pratt couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and when he whined, it was high in his throat, keening as he bent forward, forehead pressing against the disgusting floor of his kitchen as _something_ rocked through him, burning him, scalding him, like a righteous fire.

“Jacob,” he gasped, feeling the fire burn up the air in his lungs, “ _Jacob_ , **_Jacob_** _.”_

“Breathe,” Jacob told him, ordered him, and Pratt choked in a breath, feeling it snag on the kiss and make a jagged sound in his throat, and he whispered Jacob’s name again as the first tears blurred in his eyes and he pressed his head harder against the floor, trying to ground himself with pressure and pain.

Jacob let him whimper and sob on the floor for what felt like hours, Jacob’s name tearing itself out of Pratt’s mouth over and over and over again, formed out of the blood in his veins, the muscles in his heart, the darkness in his soul, swirling and festering, and the whimpers turned to growls, low and feral, and Jacob laughed, low and rough in his ear.

“Ya there, Pratt?”

“I’m here,” Pratt rasped, snarled, “I’m here, ** _come get me_**.”

The words made Jacob sigh, breathy, pleased, and Pratt could taste the smile that was forming on Jacob’s lips, the too large, white teeth, the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“All in good time,” Jacob whispered to him, soothed him, “It’s okay Pratt, I’ll be comin’ real soon, comin’ to get you, shh shh shh, can you listen to me?”

Pratt whined and nodded against the floor, and Jacob didn’t need to see him to know his answer.

“I’ve heard you’re not doin’ so well, Pratt,” Jacob’s fingers were ghosts in his hair, calming him, “Take a look around for me.”

Pratt scrambled to sit up, spine going taut, and he could see his kitchen, his house, so clearly, so so clear. Unacceptable, unacceptable. Dirty, disgusting, the home of the **Weak** , the **undisciplined**.

“Just because I’m not there doesn’t mean you get to slack off,” Jacob’s voice was strong, steady in his ear, and Pratt rose to his feet, naked, disgusted, ashamed.

“You’re mine,” Jacob reminded him and a shiver of warmth went down Pratt’s spine and he tipped his head back, savoring it, “And you want me to keep you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Pratt breathed, eyes closing, feeling the beast inside him shaking, “Yes, please, **Jacob** , I feel-” his voice cracked “- ** _lost_**.”

“Clean up, Pratt,” Jacob told him, “Take care of yourself, and I’ll call again soon.”

The line went dead and Pratt felt doused, ice cold, and he could feel his uncut, unwashed hair, his greasy fingers, the crumbs under his feet, and twenty minutes later he was on the floor, scrubbing with bloody fingers burning with chemicals, hair tied up out of his eyes.

He didn’t sleep, he didn’t stop, his curtains drawn, his door locked, and he scrubbed, vacuumed, and disinfected every part of his house he could reach, leaving his hands red and raw before he staggered into his shower and turned it as hot as it would go, scourging the filth from his body, forehead pressed to the tiles as he pulled at his cock and screamed into his hand, shaking, clean, cleansed, **_Jacob’s_**.

Spies, the Peggies.

It wasn’t hard to spot them now that Pratt was Awake, to see how their eyes lingered on him, their beards buzzed, their ugly ass white sweaters traded in for something more modern.

Someone had given Jacob his number, someone had told him that Pratt had been sliding back into Weakness. There was a part of him that was thankful, that wanted to bow at their feet, thank them for the gift they had given him, and the other part was snarling, furious.

**_How dare they walk free while Jacob rots in a cell._ **

They didn’t speak to Pratt, and the only one that tried to, a younger man whose V-neck just barely covered the scared patch of skin John had ripped away, got a mouthful of teeth for his efforts.

“You look better,” Joey told him over coffee, ignoring his split knuckles, looking instead at his cut hair, sheared down to the length Jacob had liked, his big hands pulling at Pratt’s scalp as he’d cut it. He’d shaved too, bringing his patchy beard back down to stumble, slim and attractive.

“Thanks,” Pratt forced a smile that still had too much teeth, picking at the acid green polish he’d painted on his nails, growing them longer, sharper.

“Maybe, with a bit of time, you could come back to work?” Joey tried to sound causal, but Pratt could hear the hope in her voice—she wanted her friend back, but this Pratt wasn’t Joey Hudson’s friend anymore.

“Maybe,” Pratt said, bringing his coffee to his lips, too hot, and let it burn on his tongue, feeling the kiss pulse in his throat.

When Jacob called again, it was in the midafternoon on a Thursday, and Ryan Gagne was at it again, his fucking speakers making the entire apartment complex shake, and Pratt could feel it in his bones, shaking as he covered his ears and ground his teeth, curled up on his bedroom floor.

When he answered the buzzing phone and accepted the collect call, he was snarling before it had even fully connected.

“This is your fault,” he growled, “ **You** did this to me, fuck, _fuck_ , **_fuck_**.”

“Bad time, Peaches?”

Pratt’s bookcase of CDs and tapes shuddered as the bass of Gagne’s music sent tremors through the wall.

“He won’t stop,” Pratt spat into the phone, “ _He never stops._ ”

“Then make him stop,” Jacob’s voice was a purr in his ear, pleased, delighted, “I’ve given you all the tools you need. Be a good boy, Pratt, handle this yourself, yeah? Can’t let yourself get rusty.”

_Train, Hunt, **Kill.**_

Killing Ryan Gagne was easy—humans are so fragile, so **Weak** , and Ryan hadn’t even heard him coming, too busy shaking his ass in his kitchen, cutting up vegetables for a soup while his hips swung from side to side.

His face turned as purple as his eggplants when Pratt had him pressed to the floor, hands around his throat, red blurring at the edge of his vision, and he smiled as he felt Ryan’s pulse beating like a rabbit’s under his fingers, his mouth moving with only croaking sounds coming out, drowned out by his own stereo.

“ **I told you to stop** ,” Pratt leaned down to look into his eyes, watching them grow fuzzy as Ryan’s struggles weakened, the beast in him purring, and he could hear Jacob in his ear, whispering.

_Yes, good, keep going._

The music’s beat thrummed through his body, harmonizing with his soul, and he squeezed tighter, feeling Ryan’s hands fall away from his arms, watched the light die in his eyes, and Pratt ground his rock hard cock down against Ryan’s leg as the last little bit of breath left him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, rocking against the dead weight beneath him, the vibrations of the music thrumming in his blood, and he felt something swell inside him, coming out as a scream as he came harder than he had in three months, shaking with it, air sucked from his lungs, and he laughed, soundless, breathless, dropping onto the floor next to Ryan, clutching his gut as he shook.

Getting rid of the body would be easy, there were so many places that Hope County residents wouldn’t even look at these days, and no one liked Ryan, no one would question the note that Pratt would leave in his apartment, telling the world that he was headed down to Florida for some warmer weather.

By the next morning, Ryan was gone, along with most of his belongings, buried beside him in a suitcase out by Misery, a note slipped under the door to the landlord, and Pratt enjoyed his days of quiet, grinning so wide his cheeks ached, his fingers tingling as he painted his nails a dark purple to match the bruises on Ryan’s throat.

Jacob called for a third time, on a Saturday morning while Pratt lay in bed, and this time Pratt was open, ready to receive.

“Missin’ me?” Jacob asked him.

“Yes,” Pratt breathed into the receiver.

“Wanna see me?”

“Yes,” Pratt pressed his head back into his pillow, “Yes, so bad.”

“Wanna do somethin’ for me?”

“ **Anything**.”

“Good,” Jacob sounded so close to proud, and Pratt melted with it, sighing quietly and he curled his tongue as far back in his mouth as it would go, wanting to taste Jacob in the back of his throat.

“You sure you’re ready to come back?” Whitehorse had Pratt’s badge and gun on his desk and papers from the psych office and the shooting range in his hand.

Pratt gave Whitehorse his best smile, one with just the right amount of teeth, feeling energy crackling in his skin.

“I’m ready,” he assured him, “I know I was a mess for a while, but I’m doing better. My therapist said that routine is key and that being back at work might be just what I need.”

Seeing a therapist had been a necessary evil for obtaining a satisfactory psych evaluation, and Dr.Brown, at the fucking Saint Vincent’s Veteran’s Hospital, had passed him with flying colors after a month, honestly impressed with the strides Pratt had made towards healing.

Pratt’s phone burned in his pocket as he watched Whitehorse watch him, and he knew a part of Whitehorse, the Weak, prey part, knew that Pratt shouldn’t be here, that something was off, but eventually Whitehorse nodded, and stamped “Approved” into Pratt’s reinstatement form and Pratt was handed his badge and gun, as familiar to him as Jacob’s touch.

“No hard cases, no access to the evidence room, you’ll basically be on probation for a few months, standard protocol,” Whitehorse told him.

“I won’t let you down,” Pratt nodded, clipping the badge to his chest and the gun to his belt.

“You never could, Staci,” Whitehorse reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder, “I trust you, just know you’ve had it rough.”

 ** _Liar_**.

Pratt smiled again, and Whitehorse didn’t see the cracks in it.

Joey hugged him when he exited the office, beaming at the shiny badge on his chest, and she insisted on taking him out to lunch, giddy to think she had her friend back, and she dragged him out for Mexican.

Rook was gone, out on a two weeklong vacation with Grace Armstrong. They have moved in together a few weeks ago, and when Pratt heard about the trip to California they were planning, he knew the time was drawing near.

He ate with Joey, laughing at her jokes, offering his own, seeing the hope, the joy in her eyes, and an old part of him wished that he wasn’t going to snuff all that out in a few days’ time. The newer part of him didn’t care.

“You should ask Michael out,” she told him, referring to the Department’s new receptionist, Nancy’s replacement, “you’ve only been here a day and he keeps throwing eyes at you.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Pratt smiled, packing up his leftover lunch.

Michael did keep throwing eyes at him, sending him smiles whenever Pratt looked back, and Pratt returned them, his teeth gleaming, letting his eyes linger a little too long, leaving Michael’s cheeks pink.

Jacob wouldn’t like it, and that thrilled Pratt. He thought about inviting Michael out for a smoke break, going down on him out back, letting him pull on his hair, maybe he’d even kiss him afterwards…

The pencil in Pratt’s hand snapped, a growl forming in his throat that didn’t belong to him, and he had to swallow it down, ducking his head over his files.

He wouldn’t kiss him. Maybe he’d fuck him with Michael’s face pressed into the sheets, so he could pretend, for just a moment, that Michael was bigger, warmer, crueler.

“Smoke break?”

Pratt looked up to see Michael standing by his desk, fiddling with a pack of cigarettes, trying not to smile too wide.

“Sorry,” Pratt returned the smile, “gotta finish this. Maybe tomorrow?”

Michael nodded, and headed out the back door, and Pratt watched him go.

“You could fuck him, Peaches,” Jacob told him the next morning, with Pratt sprawled out on his bed, hands down his pants, the phone on speaker, an edge to Jacob’s voice “I wouldn’t mind, we’ve all got itches to scratch don’t we? You gonna fuck him?”

Pratt’s answer came out as a moan as he tipped his head back, pressing it into his pillow as his hand moved faster over his cock, three fingers in his ass, already close—he had been hard since his phone had started buzzing.

“Answer me,” Jacob’s voice was an order, and Pratt shook his head, arching up.

“ **No** ,” he groaned, twisting the fingers inside him, “He’s too small, _fuck_ , too green, I don’t want **him**.”

“Really? Green boys can be so eager, you certainly were, my good little deputy.”

Pratt felt pressure building in his gut and he breathed out Jacob’s name, hand moving faster, and come splattered up onto his stomach, onto his chest, a drop landing on his throat, the kiss stirring beneath his skin.

“I don’t need to fuck you to know you’re mine, Pratt,” Jacob’s voice sounded closer, mouth brushing the receiver, “In fact, I want you to fuck him, make it real good for him, all right? We need him after all.”

Pratt did fuck Michael, and he did make it good, letting Michael take him home after a dinner, turning his face away when Michael tried to kiss him, but letting him touch where he wanted, Michael murmuring words into his skin that Pratt didn’t want to listen to, and he muffled him against the bedsheet while he fucked Michael until he came untouched, moaning Pratt’s name while Pratt had to bite back a gasp of **Jacob** as he came in the young receptionist.

He didn’t stay the night, but he did let Michael kiss him on the cheek before he left, murmuring about seeing him tomorrow.

Pratt rubbed his cheek raw as he drove home, his phone on speaker in the passenger seat.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll call you around 5pm, we should be good to go.”

“Thank you Deputy,” said the voice on the other end, “Praise to the Father.”

“Yeah, sure,” Pratt muttered, hanging up and running his fingers over his cheek again, his nails painted a bright, metallic blue.

Pratt waited until the Sheriff and Joey were out of the office, the former on a call about an animal attack in the Valley and the latter on patrol, before he got Michael to let him into the evidence room.

“So that if one of them comes back, they won’t see us,” Pratt told him, and Michael, stupid and young, unlocked the door and Pratt pressed him up against one of the shelves, grinding up against him.

“Wanna suck you,” he muttered into Michael’s ear, cupping his cock, feeling the boy shiver, “I got condoms in my desk, top drawer, go grab one for me?”

Michael stumbled out and Pratt had a minute to himself.

Most of the evidence relating to “that fucking shit with the Peggies, may they rest in fucking pieces, those crazy, fucking assholes” had been moved to a federal building, but there were still a few boxes remaining, including one that held Pratt’s prize, Jacob’s rifle.

Jacob couldn’t bear to leave it behind, how sentimental.

He pulled the full box out, pulling out the rifle, and then he slid out of the room, watching Michael, who was bent down, rifling through Pratt’s drawers—Pratt had told him top drawer, but they were in the bottom—and Pratt slid into the locker room, moving quickly to put the gun into his open and waiting locker, closing it with a turn of the dial, then sliding back into the office just as Michael turned around, triumphantly holding the box of condoms.

“Thought maybe you got lost,” Pratt’s heart was pounding rapidly in his chest, and he grinned as he stepped back into the evidence room and Michael followed him, letting Pratt suck him off harder than necessary, nails digging into his thighs, blowing his load within minutes as Pratt showed no mercy.

At 4:30, Pratt went to his locker, and moved the rifle into the duffle bag he’d stored there and he covered it with his gym clothes, his lunch box, and a sweater, zipping the bag and going out through the back door, calling a farewell to Joey, Whitehorse, and Michael.

It was thrilling, getting to his car with the fucking duffle bag, putting it down gently in the back seat before pulling out of the parking lot.

“We’re a go,” he said into his phone, disconnecting before the Father could be praised and he cleared his throat, bringing heat up into his mouth, swirling the taste of Jacob around, cleansing the hints of Michael.

He was close, so close.

The waiting was excruciating.

Pratt had been waiting for months now, although he hadn’t known it at the time, but now that he was aware, he was counting every second he was away from Jacob, the beast inside him pacing, tail thrashing back and forth, maw open, full of sharp teeth.

None of the Peggies, the _Faithful_ , spoke to him beyond what was necessary. They were afraid of him, which was new, but welcome, none of them Jacob’s hard trained Chosen, no, these were the loyal sheep of the Peggies, lucky to have avoided capture by the police and finding power only in numbers and the few competent among them. Pratt scowled, bared his teeth. _Weak._

Jacob wasn’t returning for them, he was returning for Pratt, and Pratt’s leg bounced as he waited, sitting in the living room of someone’s house, the wind whistling outside and rain pouring down, five cars parked, waiting, in the driveway.

“We couldn’t get more?” he had growled upon arriving, and the Peggies had given him a wide berth since then, waiting in the kitchen in their little herds, talking quietly, but much too loud for Pratt’s tastes, adding to the sound of the storm.

Light broke up the darkness outside, headlights brightening up the windows, illuminating the drops of rain on the window, accompanied by the sound of crunching gravel, and there was silence in the kitchen. Pratt rose, hands clenching around air, his nails long and sharp.

“If anyone’s gotta piss,” he turned his head towards the kitchen, “do it now.”

No one moved, and Pratt looked back forward, feeling something creeping up his throat, as the engine outside was cut, the headlights going dark, then there was the click and slam of doors being opened and closed.

The handle of the front door turned, and a Peggie, drenched, but absolutely beaming, stuck her head in.

“Let’s go,” she whispered, excited, giddy.

No one moved until Pratt did, and it took him a moment to unstick his feet from the floor. This was real, it was happening.

He pulled his hood up, touching the keys in his pocket, then he was out in the cold and the rain, wind whipping around him as he headed for his new car, a nondescript silver Honda, already unlocked, Jacob's rifle waiting in the backseat.

He slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door, the inside lights shutting off and he could hear his breathing, loud in the space, feeling the chill of water slipping down off his coat.

He watched, feeling like a cop in a movie, the others move out of the house, heading for cars, his eyes not moving to his rearview mirror, his head not turning to look in his back seat, and then there was warmth at his neck, fingers pressed to his flesh and he was being pulled, head thumping back against the headrest as a hand tightened around his throat.

“Pratt,” Jacob’s voice was so very close to his ear, “ _Baby_.”

Pratt shivered, arched his neck, pressed his skin into the contact, and he met Jacob’s eyes in the rearview mirror, blue as Pratt’s nails and full of Greed.

He was dressed in a heavy black coat and camouflage cargo pants, but Pratt could see the smallest flash of orange when he shifted his weight, the prison shirt peeking out from beneath the black, and he looked bigger than Pratt remembered, looming in his back seat, ready to devour Pratt if he so chose.

Pratt shivered again, a whine in his constricted throat, and Jacob leaned forward, using his free hand to pulled back Pratt’s hood, and hot lips pressed to his cold ear, whispering.

“Knew you could do it.”

Pratt’s eyes closed, mouth opening as Jacob’s hand brushed up his skin, a thumb pressing in between his lips.

“Did you fuck him?”

Pratt closed his lips almost gently around the thumb, and he gave it the lightest of sucks as it brushed against his tongue, tasting metal and dirt.

“Did you make it good?”

Pratt’s eyes opened again, meeting Jacob’s in the mirror and his blue eyes seemed to glow in the dark, so much closer now, and Pratt could see his scars from the lights in the house, his burns, a hungry monster in the dark.

Pratt nodded, once, and a slow smile spread across Jacob’s face, and the darkness in Pratt purred.

“Good, baby, that’s so good,” he praised, murmuring into Pratt’s ear and his thumb pressed deeper, his palm pressing up against Pratt’s chin, and Pratt’s cock was hardening in his jeans, saliva pooling in his mouth.

“You let him kiss you?”

Pratt bit down, a rumble in his throat, and Jacob laughed, a bark of a sound that filled the car, not even flinching as Pratt’s little teeth dug into his finger, blood dripping onto Pratt’s tongue.

“ **No,** ” Pratt drew his lips back, barring his teeth around the bleeding thumb, then Jacob was pulling away and his growl became a whimper as Jacob’s heat left him.

The back door opened and Pratt was frozen until Jacob was sliding into the passenger seat, closer, grinning, and his hand reached up to cup around the back of Pratt’s neck.

“Drive, Pratt,” he said, rubbing blood onto Pratt’s skin, “We’re almost free.”

A laugh stuck in Pratt’s throat, and he jammed the key into the ignition and fired up the car. All around him, the other five cars did the same, heat starting to blast from the vents. He turned the window wipers on full power, turned on the headlights, and as Jacob’s squeezed on his neck, he hit the gas.

They drove in a line, like one of John’s armed convoys, their cars nondescript as can be, paid for in cash with fake licenses waiting in the trunk and passports baring false names in the glove compartment. Pratt didn’t think the latter was necessary—Jacob wouldn’t leave America, not so long as his brother and sister were still locked up, but it didn’t hurt to have them.

Jacob’s hand stayed on the back of his neck until they were driving through the Ancient Bison Tunnel, the road cleared of rock, the cult’s spray paint power washed from the stone, and then they were out of the county and Jacob’s hand migrated to his face, thumb brushing along the scar on Pratt’s face, where the glass from the helicopter’s windshield had cut it.

“You look good,” Jacob told him, running his fingers along Pratt’s stumble, then up, into his hair, brushing it away from his face.

“Thank you,” Pratt wished it was sunny and clear, not dark and raining buckets, so he could lean into Jacob, could close his eyes, just for a moment, to savor this, before Jacob’s hands turned crueler.

“Gotta be honest,” Jacob’s hand slid down to undo the top button of Pratt’s uniform, tapping his nails against the plastic button, “At first, I hesitated to call, didn’t know if you’d slipped too far, if you’d go running to that Junior Deputy.”

Pratt didn’t answer, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel.

“But I s’ppose I was right about you,” Jacob chuckled, leaning forward to let his breath ghost over the skin of Pratt’s throat, his seatbelt thoroughly forgotten, “Knew it the moment you answered. You’re a different breed of man now, Pratt, much Stronger, much _Better_.”

His hand wandered down, rubbing at the denim over Pratt’s thigh, heating the skin beneath, then he was pulling at Pratt’s belt buckle, hot breath sending shivers down Pratt’s spine, and he made a small sound, caught between a sigh and a groan, and Jacob shushed him, fingers pulling the buckle free and undoing the button beneath, unzipping the jeans.

“You’ll-” Pratt bite the words off, sucking in a breath as Jacob squeezed him through the jeans, his hips grinding up of their own accord as heat tingled in his gut.

“Hmm?” Jacob massaged him through the fabric, hand big and warm, using just the edge of too much pressure.

“You’ll,” Pratt swallowed, nails digging into the leather of the stirring wheel, shining blue, “Y-you’ll keep me, won’t you?”

Jacob’s hand stopped, a puff of breath hitting Pratt’s skin, then Jacob chuckled, low and fond, and hot lips were pressing to his throat, sucking, hurting, and the hand slid into his pants, gripping hard around his cock and Pratt moaned, arching up into the touch, the car wobbling as a gust of wind hit its side.

“You think I’d toss you out?” Jacob jerked his cock, and Pratt had to hit the breaks to stop them from sliding off the road, easing down to 30mph, seeing only what his headlights could illuminate. No streetlights out here.

“You could,” Pratt`s knuckles went white around the wheel, darkness curling and uncurling in his stomach.

Jacob could go find other poor, pitiful soul.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Jacob sighed into his ear, “You wanna hear you’re special? I could have found some twink in that prison to fuck, could have called someone else, but I called you, Staci. My strong, good, good boy.”

The back of Pratt’s throat burned and he slammed on the breaks.

He jerked the wheel, stopping dead on the side of the road, and the other cars shot past him, pulling over ahead of them, but Pratt paid them no mind as he threw the car into park, shut off the ignition, and took hold of fistfuls of Jacob’s black coat.

It wasn’t soft like Jacob’s army jacket, which was fine, Pratt didn’t need soft, and when he kissed Jacob, he tasted better than Pratt remembered. He sucked the flavor into the back of his throat, to join the other kiss, to soothe the burn, and Jacob’s hand gripped his hair as he growled into Pratt’s mouth, savaging his lips, pressing Pratt back until his elbow knocked the door.

Pratt ground up against the hand still in his pants, something between a moan and a snarl pressed into Jacob’s mouth, and when white fire ripped through his gut, come spurted up the arm of Jacob’s black jacket, Pratt’s hands shaking as his tongue pressed into Jacob’s mouth, hoping he’d taste himself lingering somewhere back near the tonsils.

“We gotta keep movin’,” Jacob murmured when Pratt pulled back, moving to rub his cheek against Jacob’s beard, feeling it scratch, burn, Jacob’s hand going from lax to firm in his hair, making it prick at the roots.

“Yeah,” Pratt turned his head to get in a last brush of a kiss, tongue flicking out to trace the red of Jacob’s bottom lip before he pulled back and Jacob let go of him, freeing his hand from Pratt’s jeans.

Pratt restarted the car, reaching down to zip and button his pants, warmth lingering in his gut, then he pulled off the side of the road, gravel crackling beneath the tires.

He felt different, calmer, the wind no longer threatening to blow him into a tree as he once more took the lead of their six car escort.

Jacob’s hand once again curled around the back of his neck, keeping the warmth that had settled comfortably in his body from leaving, and Pratt inhaled and exhaled quietly, the beast inside him fed and sleepy, curling up to sleep as Jacob’s fingers brushed idly at his skin.

After a few minutes of silence, Jacob leaned forward, and switched on the radio, grunting as he leaned back, eyes closing.

Pratt knew the song, one of his favorites, from an old, different life, and he began to hum along quietly while Jacob dozed off and the storm finally began to calm around them.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all, hope you enjoyed the story. If you liked it, feel free to check out some of my other Far Cry 5 stories. Also, if you feel like there are any tags/warnings missing that I should add, feel free to let me know. Thanks!


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